


We could not be alone together.

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Prompt fills and Random Plot Bunnies. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, bamf!Molly, someone got shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt. This is what started me on my Sherlolly track. Although it ended up not being the direction that my Midwife and Mortician story takes.</p><p>I like the idea of Molly finally taking control of the situation.<br/>Also that John and Greg are John and Greg.</p><p>added a second chapter after receiving another prompt. probably the end.</p><p>unless someone pokes me for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> iamazonian answered your question:prompt me?  
> Married!Sherlolly, Sherlock pretends to be sick to get Molly to come home early. She is not amused. [Sorry if it’s too shallow… :))]
> 
> Thanks so much for the prompt! I tried, but it isn’t exactly what you asked. I hope you like it. (this just proves that I am horrible at prompts and i should not be trusted with them.)

He sighed as he lowered the violin, gently placing it back in the case and closing the lid before allowing himself to shake out his arms. The violin was the one thing he would not allow himself to lose control around. Everything else was available for experimentation, subject to pressure, how far could he push a thing before it snapped. The violin was for testing his own boundaries, and again he had come up short. Judging by the muscle strain in his arms he had been playing for almost an hour. His concentration had snapped when his bow arm began to waver.

“Transport.” he snarled, stalking away from the case and flinging himself down in an arm chair. He glared at the clock on the mantle, trying to hold it accountable for the fact that it was still three hours until Molly was due back from the morgue. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his robe. “Anything. SH” it wasn’t a question, he knew that she would have sent him a text if something interesting had come in. 

As soon as the whoosh of the sent message sounded he was up and pacing, twiddling the phone in his fingers. Molly never responded to his texts right away, she was trying to teach him patience and self reliance . It would be a minimum of fifteen minutes before he would receive a response. 

He hated pacing in this flat, the carpet was too soft muffling his steps. It exacerbated his boredom, not being able to have a proper strop. Not like the floors at 221b, which were perfect for stomping. But John and Lestrade lived there now, maybe John would….

He strapped that particular thought to the train tracks and allowed the 14:15 to Bristol from Paddington Station to create a fascinating crime scene in his mind. John wasn’t… well it was best if he let that be… John said that he understood, but he had also threatened to “wound him grievously in a non-theatrical and non-life threatening manner.” John was a doctor and a soldier and Sherlock took him at his word. Lestrade had just raised his eyebrows at Sherlock in a manner that suggested he would testify on John’s behalf.

Sherlock was just beginning to devise experiments he could conduct on the horrible carpet when his phone pinged. “Sorry just two heart attacks and a cancer. No donations today. mh”

Sherlock growled at the phone and sent back “What a waste. BORED. SH” He honestly did not understand how people with perfectly interesting cancers and faulty hearts could just die and not donate their corpses to science. 

“leave off the carpet. mh” She texted back immediately, Sherlock suspected that her phone had some sort of priority alert on his messages and the terms bored and experiment. He wasn’t sure if Mycroft had anything to do with it or not. He’d tried to test it but she had been not amused when she had come home to discover that he had not in fact conducted an experiment in the tub that had required a haz-mat team response. Although he had decided it would not have been better to have actually conducted the experiment.

He had discovered that Molly Hooper not amused was a bit like Mummy upset. Ever since she had cornered him after the incident with John. John had helped clear Sherlock’s name. Unable to look Sherlock in the eyes after he came back. Once he had been cleared John had spoken to a point just over Sherlock’s right shoulder. “You should go now.” Molly had taken Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him out of 221b, hailing a cab and bringing them back to her flat. Once they were inside she had literally backed him into a corner. Pressing him against the wall without actually touching him. Her eyes focused on his clavicle. “Sherlock, listen, I know that you don’t, and I’m not trying to make you. But you shouldn’t be alone, I can see what it was for you to be alone. I can take care of you, well no, you don’t need to be taken care of… But I can make it so you are not alone. Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?” 

And he had said “Yes, fine.” while she was still trying to speak, to continue to give him reasons. He’d put his fingers under her chin and tilted her head up, meeting her eyes. “You do matter Molly Hooper.” And he had placed a soft kiss on her cheek. 

She had flushed and stammered and they had a small civil ceremony at the end of the week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg try to rebuild their lives. And Sherlock's post humous reputation. It is easier with help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See this is why it pays to ask for things. aphasia commented on the first chapter of this, and because I aim to please. Or at least to accommodate.  
> They wanted to see the John/Greg side of this. So I wrote this in about 4 hours. Sorry if it is terrible and for all the jump cuts.
> 
> Also because I'm procrastinating on writing my other fics. (I am a very bad girl)

John and Greg had started as a way to clear Greg’s name. Sherlock had destroyed John’s life when he jumped off St. Barts. But he had ruined Greg’s, they had started meeting at a pub near Greg’s bedsit, to talk theories and exchange evidence. Greg was suspended, but he had his own case notes. After one too many sideways glances and muttered disparagements _“Oh those two Sherlock Holmes nutters.”_ John had packed them up and moved the entire endeavour to Baker Street.

Greg hadn’t been to Baker Street since Christmas. When he walked in he inhaled sharply, then tried to cover it with a cough. The sitting room was a mausoleum, nothing had changed, except that Mrs. Hudson had boxed up Sherlock’s chemistry set. The boxes were stacked next to the couch, labeled in John’s own hand. Greg had seen Sherlock’s ‘situation boards’ before, taking up sections of wall, laying out everything in an order that only he could see. John had turned the entire sitting room into a situation board. Every detail of every case Sherlock had ever worked on with even a hint of Moriarty was pinned to the wall.

John flushed, flexing his left hand repeatedly. “If you are going to have me sectioned let me know now.”

Greg frowned, stepping closer to the window, to look at something under the cow skull. “Some of this is from my cases?” Greg noticed that nothing was connected, except the cases that Sherlock had worked through the pink phone. “Why are their no connections?”

John collapsed into his chair. “Because Moriarty never did the same thing twice. Like Sherlock, he got bored. He never used the same people or the same configuration of steps. All I have is the botox that killed Carl Powers and Connie Prince.”

“Well, that isn’t nothing.”

“Purchased decades apart by different people from different, and legitimate sources. The records don’t even exist for Powers, and Prince... well that actually was the houseboy.” John waves his hand in dismissal.

“Is it coincidence that both of their initials are C.P.? That is a little weird, isn’t it?”

John’s jaw dropped and he stared at Greg as though he had just sprouted a second head. He sprang from the chair and started pulling pages of files off the wall. Sorting and organizing frantically. “Jesus. _**Jesus**_!” John stood in the centre of the room, sorting the papers into something that Greg didn’t understand.

“What, what is it?”

“He was playing some sort of sick alphabet game. Look General Shan was shot, and this case, Sherlock thought it was Moriarty but he couldn’t be sure. Smith, Edward. Killed in his home with a shotgun. Powers and Prince, both poisoned.” John brought his hand to his mouth. “They aren’t all murders, the things Moriarty fixed up, but all these murders match.” His shoulders dropped “How does this help though?”

Greg crossed to John and took the papers from him. “It gives us something to look for. Maybe there are other cases, maybe something will turn up.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder. “This is something, a place to start. Let me call Dimmock, he still owes me some favours, maybe he can slip us some case files.” He pulled out his phone and called Dimmock, leaving his hand on John’s shoulder.  
++++++++++++++++++++++  
In the end Dimmock did find them several unsolved shootings. There were no ballistics matches, but John was able to recreate the shots. Always over greater than necessary distances and always single kill shots. This led John to former military snipers. Greg and John spent several weeks tracking down and interviewing men who had been dishonourably discharged after incidents involving sniper fire. Perhaps not surprisingly a significant portion of these men were involved in crime. Dimmock’s arrest and clearance record jumped fifteen percent while John and Greg poked around behind the scenes.

Greg had taken up residence on the couch at 221B, on the occasions when they slowed down long enough to sleep. Although there were periods of weeks at a time when they had nothing on. They slipped into a casual domestic relationship, Greg was a surprisingly good cook and John managed the shopping and did dishes. The door at the end of the hall off the kitchen remained closed until one day it didn’t.

Greg still knocked on the door of the flat whenever he arrived back without John, even though John had given him a set of keys weeks ago. He dropped the keys on the kitchen table and ran some water into the kettle, calling out “John, are you here?”

“In here.”

Greg froze, realizing that John wasn’t in the loo, but in Sherlock’s bedroom. He set the kettle back down on the counter and carefully approached the bedroom, as he would approach a hostage situation or a suspicious package. “John?” Greg stopped in the doorway, looking in to see his friend standing beside Sherlock’s bureau, a large cardboard box empty on the floor next to him.

“You are going to put your back out sleeping on the sofa. I was going to clear this up so you could move in properly. I mean... this is taking awhile, and I thought... it is better than that bedsit... and I could use the company... I mean all the time.” John’s left hand flexed again. “It is only socks. I mean, who even has a sock index?”

Greg crossed the room, putting his hands on John’s shoulders. “John. Jesus, John I’m horrible at this. I’m sorry, I know it isn’t okay, that it might not be okay ever. But it is alright, you don’t have to be okay. I’d kill him again for what he did to you.”

John choked something that was half laugh half sob and collapsed into Greg’s arms, wrapping his arms around Greg’s waist and tucking his head into Greg’s collarbone. “It is better when you are here, I wanted to ask you to stay.” he mumbled into Greg’s shirt.

Greg closed his arms around John, feeling the tight compact power that was hidden under the wooly exterior. “I’d say yes if you asked me. But you don’t need to do this if you aren’t ready. I’ve spent enough time on the sofa at the Yard, at least the one here...” he trailed off, realizing that the sofa in the sitting room was more comfortable because it was Sherlock’s. “Well the one here is here. I don’t miss Anderson waking me up at the Yard.” Greg flinched, he’d avoided mentioning any of his former team in the time he had been in Baker Street. John and Donovan had nearly come to blows during their last encounter. He tried to pull back from John to apologize.

John’s arms tightened around his waist. “I feel like I need to make space in the flat for myself. I thought it would be easier to make space for you. But every time I opened a drawer I expected him to storm in and yell at me for touching his things. It is pathetic.”

Greg tilted his head trying to look into John’s eyes. “It isn’t.”

John pulled back furrowing his brow. “We weren’t a couple.”

“I know.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think he... He really was married to the work.”

“I knew him five years before you. He let you down easy.”

The look on John’s face almost made Greg laugh, he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself.

“You, no, you flirted with Sherlock?” John didn’t pull away, his arms still around Greg’s waist. “What about Rebecca?”

“Met her...” He wrinkled his nose “six months after the first case Sherlock and I worked together. Bit whirlwind, got hitched six months after, no church or anything. He showed up after and handed me a bottle of scotch. Said I would need it.”

“Bastard.”

Greg smirked. “I wouldn’t have listened to him, it was all sunshine and lollipops in the early days.”

“But you tried for him first?”

“Course I did, Jesus, I think Anderson tried for him once. Before they had had a proper conversation anyway. It wasn’t even that he said anything particularly cruel. Just the way he said no. Actually he said yes, but he made it clear that he would only trade sexual favours for cases. I... Yeah I didn’t by the way!”

John realized that he must have looked scandalized and schooled his expression. “I didn’t think you did. I’m shocked he... well that it occurred to him really. I thought he didn’t know... but no. He would have seen it as access to the work, and made the trade.” John shuddered. “He was a manipulative bastard at times.”

Greg didn’t bother to reply to that. He hoped that he knew where this conversation was going, but he didn’t want to put any pressure on John. He was enjoying the closeness of being in the circle of the other man’s arms.

John’s fingers, on both hands Greg noted, flexed against Greg’s hips. Greg could see John make a decision, he felt a surge of fear as though they were balanced on the edge of something huge.

“Greg, I’d like for you to stay here, permanently... I don’t think I am ready for this...” His left hand came away from Greg’s hip and made a circle to take in the room. “I think I need to clear his name, before I can really say goodbye. And I understand if you don’t want to be here now, because I am a mess. I’d like for you to stay... and you wouldn’t have to...” John closed his eyes, dropping his forehead against Greg’s chest. “Jesus, Watson are you sixteen?” Greg felt him exhale sharply against his chest before he jerked his head back, sharp determination in his eyes. “You could stay. Upstairs. With me.”

Greg smiled, “Alright.” He pulled John closer and placed a gentle chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Takeaway?”

“Yes, I’m starved.”

They closed the door to Sherlock’s room again.  
+++++++++++++++++++  
Greg stayed on the couch for two more weeks after that. When the month was over he moved all of his things into Baker Street from the bedsit.

It was six more months before they even heard the name Sebastian Moran.

Four months passed while they tried to track him down.

+++++++++++++++++++++  
They finally tracked Moran to a block of abandoned warehouses. There hadn’t been any more alphabet murders since Sherlock jumped. John tried not to think about why that would be, he hoped Moriarty had just stopped leaving clues because he knew no one would be able to find them.

John and Greg had been searching the warehouses for nearly an hour when they heard the sound of a struggle. Grunts and the peculiar sound of bodies thrown against furniture and walls in anger, the slap of fists against skin. John drew his gun and signaled Greg to stay behind him. Greg watched John’s feet, trying to ignore the presence of the gun in John’s hand. His own fingers twitched, cursing the loss of his service revolver.

It barely took John a moment after he entered the room to process what he was seeing, before he took aim and put a bullet into Moran’s knee. The man collapsed, screaming. John tucked his pistol back into the waist of his trousers and turned on his heel. He only took a step and he was level with Greg again. “Did you mean it when you said you would kill him for me?”

“I don’t think so. I... no. I won’t.” Greg could not turn his head to look at John.

John’s shoulders sagged and he reached around, removing the gun from his belt again. “I think you should hold this.” He held the gun out to Greg on the flat of his hand. “I am going outside to call an ambulance.” He turned his head to glance at the man writhing on the floor. “Apply some pressure to that so he doesn’t bleed out before they get here.” He nodded his head sharply and left the room, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking for a signal to dial 999.

Greg pushed the gun into the back of his trousers and pulled his coat down to cover it. Moving to Moran and kneeling beside him. “I’m going to try and make it so you won’t die. But I’m not really that interested in you living, so no funny stuff yeah?”

Moran knocked his head against the floor, gritting his teeth and spitting out _“Fuck you”_

Greg shrugged and sat back on his haunches. “I’ve got no problem letting you bleed to death mate. Go on then.”

Sherlock had pulled himself up and was staring in disbelief at the space that John had occupied. “John.”

Lestrade spared him a glance. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is that, thanks so much for reading.  
> Hope you enjoyed it. xoxoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is just painfully easy to get me to do things.  
> Especially when I should be writing Midwife and Mortician (and all the other things) but Mycroft is making me uncomfortable.  
> Again written really quickly so if you spot any errors please let me know.

John Watson is not a 16 year old girl. Therefore, there is not a bonfire of Sherlock’s belongings on the pavement in front of 221B.  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
After the ambulance takes away Sebastian Moran, John turns to Greg, “I’m going home, yeah.”

Greg had taken him in, chewing on the inside corner of his lip. “Alright?”

“No, I’m not, but I can’t stay.” He gestured at where Sherlock was sitting in the back of a second ambulance, he’d apparently cracked several ribs in the altercation with Moran. “I’m only homicidal though.” 

Greg tried to laugh, but he could tell that John was just barely keeping his rage in check. He waved over a uniformed officer. “Have someone escort Doctor Watson home. I want a patrol car outside his door until we sort out if this lunatic was acting alone.”

John tried to protest, saying that he could get a cab home, that he would be fine. Greg didn’t bother to reply, issuing orders to underlings that weren’t strictly speaking his.

Mycroft’s car glided up as the patrol car carrying John pulled away. Greg sighed, wondering if he would be allowed any further access to the investigation. If the elder Holmes was taking an interest “National Security” was about to be invoked and the Yard would be closed out. He looked over at the Sherlock shaped apparition in the back of the ambulance wondering if that would vanish as well.

Greg gaped as Molly Hooper burst out of the black car, dodging under the crime scene tape and weaving through the crime scene techs and police headed straight for the ambulance that contained Sherlock. He rubbed his eyes, sure he was hallucinating as Sherlock actually allowed her to fuss over him. Then flinched in sympathy as Molly started to shout at him for taking unnecessary risks.

“To be fair, Doctor Hooper only usually sees those types of injuries after they have killed her patients.” Mycroft smiled slightly at Greg. 

Greg pursed his lips. Preparing for the dismissal that he was sure was coming. 

Mycroft merely tilted his head. “Ah. I see. Well.” His umbrella tapped against the ground. “Now that this nasty bit of business is finished I trust you will wish to return to the Yard in your former capacity? I believe they will be expecting you Monday morning.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Are you the magic job fairy as well as the British Government then?”

The corners of Mycroft’s lips pulled up. “Surely you do not believe that anyone important doubted the veracity of Sherlock’s work?” The implication being of course that Mycroft’s opinion was the only one Greg should be concerned with. “Unless you would prefer to be a kept man?”

“The Yard can’t take me back, that one,” He jerked his thumb in Sherlock’s direction. “destroyed whatever credibility I might have had. The Daily Mail will lynch me if I set foot inside the building.”

“You flatter yourself Detective Inspector. The public eye has moved on, Sherlock will not be making any grand declarations. He is not dead, you are not disgraced. These things are true because they are, regardless of what the readers of the Daily Mail believe.”

Greg turned to watch the ambulance pull away, taking Sherlock to the hospital for x-rays. “So he will just vanish again?”

“No. Moran is the last of Moriarty's network. I imagine he will want to explain. There were circumstances that required him to do what he did. I do hope you can prevail on Doctor Watson to allow Sherlock to explain.”

“I cannot promise Sherlock will survive, John is very angry, I have never seen him that calm before.”

“Perhaps you should hold onto his gun then.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Greg closed the sitting room door. He leaned back against it, gathering his strength. “John?” Although he suspected he knew where John was.

“Here” John called from Sherlock’s bedroom.

Greg crossed the flat slowly, stopping in the doorway to the bedroom. Vaguely surprised that the room seemed intact, but he would have been less worried if John had destroyed the room.

John was neatly folding a pair of trousers, preparing to add them to a partially full box on the bed. For all Sherlock’s fashion sense he didn’t actually own that much clothing. Greg could see that the majority of the closet had already been cleaned out.

“Can you bring me the skull?” John did not make eye contact with Greg.

“John.”

John put the trousers in the box and turned back to the wardrobe, pulling down a white shirt and shaking it out.  
“He told me he was a fake, and I thought he was lying to me. He told me a lie that was pretending to be the truth. Actually maybe I am an idiot. I can’t even sort out if he was telling me the truth and pretending to lie or the other way around. I don’t think it matters at the end though. I just want all this gone. Maybe we should just move. Nothing here is really mine anyway.”

“John, he called me. He is coming to explain, he says. I told him no. I really did. I told him I could not guarantee his safety.”

John froze for just an instant, holding the shirt under his chin as he folded it. “Good. That is good. I would love to hear the reason for this.” He stopped folding the shirt and threw it into the box. “Bring me the skull and the violin will you?” He ripped the remaining items off their hangers and tossed them into the box.  
++++++++++++++++++++++++

John sat in his chair, Lestrade stood beside the fireplace while Sherlock outlined Moriarty’s plan. John didn’t interrupt, he simply stared at a point on his knee until Sherlock was finished. Molly stood in the sitting room door, unsure if she should stand beside Sherlock.

“Is that it?” John sat back in the chair and turned his head to look at Sherlock for the first time. He found that he could not look the other man in the eyes so he settled for staring at the wall papers over his shoulder. “Some two bit assassins, and a lunatic.”

“John, Moran would have killed you. That tattoo’d hulk had a pistol with a silencer so he could get away with putting a bullet into Mrs. Hudson’s brain. And a Detective in Lestrade’s office was arranging a method to get Lestrade alone and make it look like a suicide.”

“That sounds like a regular fucking day for us Sherlock. Did it even occur to you to ask me for help, that maybe jumping off a building wasn’t the first thing that needed doing? Jesus, I barely knew you a day and...” John’s eyes flicked to Greg. “Instead, you went to a civilian and apparently your brother... the one who betrayed you to the lunatic in the first place.” John flexed his hands several times, wishing for his gun, or maybe his cane, just something to hold onto to keep from flying apart. “And then you called me, to be your note. To let me try to talk you out of it and fail.” John shook his head. “And still I believed you, I quit my job, cut myself off from things that weren’t Sherlock and tried to prove...” He gestured at the walls, still covered in case notes.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to Lestrade. “John, I had to protect you. All of it was to make sure you were safe.”

John smirked. “You said dangerous and I came anyway Sherlock. I’ve never needed protection. And I would have helped. We could have... faced him together.” He laughed, “He was my arch enemy too you know. Just don’t. Don’t make excuses and don’t come back here. Greg has my gun... now. But if I see you again I will shoot you, and you won’t die, because I am a very good shot.”

“John. I was trying to protect you.”  
“Get. OUT.” John did not shout, but this was more than shouting. 

Molly stepped forward and pulled Sherlock away. Putting her hand on the middle of his back and pushing him out the door.

She followed him out, and she heard John say “There are two boxes by the door, his things are in them. Send someone for the books. Not you. Or Mycroft.”

Molly nodded, not trusting her voice. She pulled the sitting room door closed and crowded Sherlock down the stairs, making him pick up the boxes by the door and carry them out while she hailed a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit. Alright, one more after this.  
> Because I am weak.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is useful again.
> 
> The case is a bit icky, but turns out okay.

  


Sherlock’s phone suddenly chirped out “Houston, we have a problem.” and he stared at it, too shocked to respond to the text message, let alone open it. It must be a mistake, perhaps a joke although it was unlikely Lestrade would be prank texting him. More likely it was a group message, and Lestrade had just neglected to remove Sherlock’s number from the group.

Sherlock exhales sharply as the second message causes the phone to shift slightly on the coffee table. And if the haste with which he scoops up the phone is undignified, but there is no one there to see is it truly undignified?

He swipes open the phone and enters his code (5646 for the curious, and unforgivably sentimental.) He inhales and holds it before pressing the message icon, he mustn’t let his hopes rise early, it could be anything. It could be a case, but also it could be that they had found some stray item of his in 221B and wanted him to collect it. John had been very thorough in his purge of the flat, but it was the season for spring cleaning.

The message was not about misplaced socks, and Sherlock felt his respiration return to normal.

_Locked room, bodies staged. Will you come? -L_

The second message is an address. Sherlock stared at the phone. Suddenly unable to formulate a response that did not include John. (Will John be there? Why haven’t you asked John? Does John know you asked me? Does he still... Will he shoot me? I need an assistant. Call John. Please.)

He was still staring when a new message came in, this one from Molly.

_Greg just called, he says they will bring the bodies here when you’ve finished. Eat something before you go. -mh_

He stood, smoothing his hands over the silk of his house coat before switching back to Lestrade’s message.

_Forty-five minutes. -SH_

It only took him five minutes to dress, carefully choosing his attire. He needed to make sure that he looked appropriate, but still contrite. If Lestrade was going to let him work cases again he needed to make a good first impression. He briefly considered adding the tie that Molly had given him at Christmas. He dismissed it after a moment. Even Lestrade would take that as a sign he was trying too hard. Better to appear as he had before, and make an effort at good behaviour. Lestrade would appreciate that more than hiding behind a half-Windsor knot.

The cabs seemed to have made a note of Sherlock’s new address, he never had any difficulty hailing one, even from the side street that contained Molly’s flat. For all that he had lived there nearly a year, it was still difficult to think of as home. He spent the entire cab ride to the crime scene repeating “I will not insult Anderson or Donovan.” “I will not do anything that will make Lestrade kick me off the case.” The second one seemed less likely by the minute. He had no idea what would trigger this new Lestrade. He changed it to “I will monitor Lestrade’s reactions for signs of impending shouting.”

His first resolution turned out to be moot anyway, the Sergeant at the tape was someone that Sherlock had not worked with before. A quick skim of his attitude and shoelaces revealed that he had been transferred in from another division sometime in the last two years. Sherlock approached and stood at a respectful distance from the tape.

“Good afternoon, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I believe D.I. Lestrade is expecting me.”

“I.D. Please.” The Sergeant asked, taking the card from Sherlock and passing a quick look between the photo on the card and the man standing before him. He had a subdued conversation on his radio and then waved over an uniformed officer to take Sherlock in. The Sergeant lifted the tape over his head and waved Sherlock through.  “Lestrade says they waited for you, better get a move on.”

Sherlock thanked the man, accepting back his card and slotting it back into his wallet. Actively avoiding contact with the other man’s eyes. Everyone in the Yard would know about what had happened, no need to confirm this man’s suspicions. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to delete the tiny details of the Sergeant’s life, the things Molly told him he had no business knowing. That did not matter. _The case, remember the case. Nothing else matters._

Sherlock chanted pi under his breath, trying to avoid cataloguing the details of the uniformed officer’s gait as they walked across the cordoned off area to a small tent standing in front of an abandoned warehouse. The uniform led him inside the tent, and Sherlock paused inside the flap. A test? Of his behaviour, or that of the new members of Lestrade’s team? Or simply just following protocol.

Best to err on the side of caution Sherlock decided, slipping out of his coat and folding it into one of the empty plastic bins under the table. He shook out the blue clean suit and carefully opened the zip. The uniform watched him with bored eyes, not a test then, just protocol. Or the uniform wasn’t aware that he was being tested.

When he has put the ridiculous little boots over his shoes the uniform leads him out the other side of the tent. They enter the house, small detached, recently vacant. Nothing personal left behind. Sherlock inhales, dust, no mold kept in good repair by the estate agent. Previous occupant elderly woman. Her grown children had transferred her to an old age home. The uniform announces his arrival and steps back to let him enter the small bedroom at the back of the house.

Sherlock pauses in the doorway, the room is cramped. Lestrade is standing at the corner of a large bed, looking expectantly at him. Sherlock tries to speak, to greet this man who used to be one third of his heart. Instead his eyes flick over the rest of the room.

“This is not a locked room.” Sherlock says instead.

“Yeah, sorry. We sorted that bit out after the estate agent said the whole place was unfurnished. Still.” Lestrade jerked his head, indicating the room.

Sherlock pulls the nitrile gloves onto his fingers before stepping into the room. There is barely enough room for the bed. Lestrade takes two steps back and is pressed against the wall by the head of the bed. Sherlock doesn’t look to his left, he knows John is there. Knew it before he entered the room. If John is about to shoot him he would rather not see it coming, but he is not afraid. That John is here means that Lestrade has already exhausted his options.

In the end Sherlock doesn’t touch anything. There is nothing here but what the killer wants them to see. One of the boys is older, plays football and is sandy haired. The other is small, pale and dark haired, although Sherlock thinks the killer dyed that boy’s hair. Sherlock stands and stares and does not look to his left. “You will need to take me in for questioning. I’ll go willingly, but I will make a fuss outside, someone will be watching.”

John makes a noise at that, as though he has been punched in the solar plexus. “No, you are meant to be helping. It isn’t, it can’t be.” John gestures futilely at the bed.

Sherlock turns, taking in the set of John’s shoulders, sweeping his gaze over the man in an attempt to commit him to memory. John meets his eyes and he wants to hold his gaze as long as he can. Sherlock tilts his head towards the bed. “That is my school uniform. I assume you recognize your own or you would not have allowed Lestrade to call me in. I know you wished it otherwise...” Sherlock paused, not trusting his voice. “I would undo this if I could, it has been done to draw me out, and to discredit me again.”

The larger boy convulsed suddenly, and John flew across the small distance, reaching for a pulse point. “Jesus, he’s breathing. Greg, get a medic in here!” He rolled the child onto his side, into a recovery position and checked his airway.

Lestrade began to move forward but Sherlock held out his hand. Carefully not touching the detective. “Hit me. Then get the medic.”

“What, Sherlock! The boy needs the hospital.” Lestrade was already angry, his fist clenched.

“Hit me and tell the medic you need him for a concussion. The fewer people know that the boy survived the better. He is still in danger.” Sherlock looked down at the bed and saw that the smaller boy was also twitching. “They are still in danger, and you still need to take me in for questioning.”

Lestrade looked down at John, who met his gaze and nodded tersely. Lestrade’s fist connected with Sherlock’s jaw before Sherlock had a chance to brace himself and he stumbled backwards against the doorway. Sherlock allowed himself to slide down the wall and land sprawled on the floor.

Lestrade paused in the doorway, looking down at Sherlock. Sherlock rubbed his jaw and looked up at him. “Yes, I’m fine. Get the medic.”

John ignored both of them, shining a light into the smaller boy’s eyes.

“Is he?” Sherlock sat up a bit straighter against the wall.

“Yes, I don’t know how, I checked them myself. They weren’t breathing, there was no pulse.”

Sherlock waves his hand. “There are neurotoxins. It is surprisingly easy to stop the heart for a time. But the dosages would need to be very precise.”

John’s shoulders tense again, the relief that he felt at the children’s recovery vanishing as Sherlock speaks. “Is that how you did it?”

Sherlock knocks his head against the wall, hard, cursing himself. “John, I owe you a thousand apologies. The lie kept you safe, you and Lestrade, I would tell it again and again. And I will never stop being sorry for the pain I caused you. I was awake John. I saw what I had done.”

John doesn’t turn to look at him, he is focused on the children. But Sherlock can see by the set of his shoulders that John heard him.

Lestrade returns with a paramedic. Sherlock actually has to wave the man away. “I’m fine you dolt, deal with them.”

Lestrade leans down next to Sherlock. “Are you sure you are okay?”

“What... Yes, I’m fine.” Sherlock pushes himself up the wall, still leaning heavily against it. “John. John, you should still take them to Molly. If this is a trick... but if he thinks he killed them. They have to stay dead until we can catch him.” He turns to look at Lestrade. “I’ll go with you now Inspector.”

True to his word Sherlock allows himself to be handcuffed again. The noise in John’s throat is turned into a cough as he tells the paramedic to go out and bring in two gurneys.  
Lestrade leads Sherlock out of the room and away from the house.

Sherlock shrugs, his fingers playing over the edges of the cuffs. “Make sure someone brings my coat. I left it in one of your bins.”

Lestrade doesn’t respond, his hand firm in the centre of Sherlock’s back as they approach the street. Once they are in full view of the rest of the team Sherlock starts to rant, twisting against Lestrade’s grip.  
“I’m telling you you have it all wrong! Lestrade, you have to believe me, I had nothing to do with this!”

“Yeah, right, that is what they all say.” Lestrade pulls Sherlock towards his own car, holding Sherlock firmly by the elbow while popping open the door. “Mind your head.” Lestrade puts his hand into Sherlock’s hair to guide him down into the car. Once Sherlock is tucked in behind the front seat Lestrade closes the door with more force than necessary. He motions to the Sergeant on the tape line. “Go in and help Doctor Watson, I’ve got to take this one to the Yard.” He says it loud enough to carry, but doesn’t explain further.

Once they have left the scene Greg turns to look at Sherlock in the mirror. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Someone is trying to send a message to John and I. It will trace back to Moran eventually. But if he doesn’t feel like he is being understood he may escalate. I think the message is that he can get to us, even from prison, that we aren’t safe. But why only poison the children? I need to talk to him. You need to charge me with their murder, and send me to Pentonville. How soon can I be put into the general population?”

Greg was flabbergasted. “Sherlock, I can’t charge you with child murder have you put in gen pop. If you have a death wish, I am sure John would be happy to oblige.”

Sherlock sighed, pulling his wrists forward and rubbing them slightly. The cuff dangled from his left wrist. “I need to speak to Moran, he won’t talk to me if he thinks that I am working for the Yard again. I must be disgraced, dishonoured and possibly broken. I believe several of my former homeless network currently reside in Pentonville. I can arrange for them to be the ones who beat me within an inch of my life. Moran will still be in the prison hospital, I can speak to him there.”

Lestrade pursed his lips unable to disagree with the plan, even though it was patently insane. And he knew John would disapprove, the paradox of John Watson desperately wishing to keep Sherlock whole and safe, while at the same time filled with such a rage as to wish unending torment on the man.

“Tell John it is my penance. He wants this man caught, and so do I.” Sherlock looks out the window watching the city slide past. “I would suffer worse than this to have him look at me again.”  
“I don’t think he actually wants you hurt, Sherlock. He’s in too much pain for that.” Greg thinks of all the nights he spent soothing John, sand and blood replaced in John’s dreams by a silhouette against the morning sky and blood and rain on paving stones. John, unable to carry his mobile while out walking lest it should ring. Greg knew he shouldn’t tell Sherlock any of that. A look in the rearview mirror told him he didn’t have to, Sherlock knew what he had done.

Sherlock met his eyes in the mirror. Greg knew Sherlock would accept the punishment he thought he deserved, regardless of whether John wanted it or not. “Put the cuffs back on, we are almost to the Yard.”

He rearranged his wrists behind his back and Lestrade heard the click of the cuff.

“Leave em on, and leave the pick in the car. Can’t have them taking it off you.” Greg tried not to be amused by Sherlock’s antics. “Isn’t there some other way to catch this creep?”

“Not without waiting for him to make a mistake, and next time they might not wake up.” Sherlock shifted forward. “I’d like that back, eventually. It took me some time to find one strong enough for Yard-issued cuffs.” They pulled into the parking complex of the Yard and Sherlock leaned forward. “Take the children to Molly, she will know what to do. And get me into Pentonville as soon as possible.”

+++++++++++++++++++++

Lestrade did what he could to get Sherlock processed quickly. Sherlock was Sherlock and pushed the bureaucracy at Pentonville until they broke and pushed him through first night and into resettlement. Lestrade wasn’t sure if it really was Sherlock’s network that landed him in the hospital wing or if it was just word of the nature of his ‘crime’.

Moran proved to be just as prone to monologuing as his former employer and Sherlock was equipped with a wire this time. It was a relatively easy to track down and corner the bad guy.

Sherlock was released to St. Bart’s. Molly came upstairs and fussed over him, not the first time she had patched him up. She froze when John and Greg entered the room. Looking between Sherlock and John. “Should I?” John hadn’t been quite as angry at her, but he also hadn’t forgiven her for her part in Sherlock’s deception.

“No, Molly, stay. I just wanted to check on him.” John was flushed, angry, but his hands were steady. Greg put his hand on John’s back and kept it there, rubbing small circles into the other man’s jumper.

John turned to Sherlock, really meeting his eyes for the first time. “You are an idiot.”

Sherlock smiled. Tried to laugh and winced instead. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
> sorry about the jump cut and neat ending.


End file.
